From the moment she walked into my office I knew she was no good. It was probably the revolver she was carrying, although the fact that she’d just shot me twice in the leg was another clue.

“I’m not going to play any more of your games, Fenway,” she said as she glared down at me with one beady eye reflecting the streetlamp outside. I thought she was nuts. It wasn’t until later I found out she had a glass eye.

“Good,” I said. “I always cheat anyway.” Probably not the wisest thing to say at the time, but seeing as the worst she could do at this stage was fill me full o’ lead, I didn’t really feel I had much to lose. Apart from my life, I mean.

Then, I realized something: “Wait, did you call me ‘Fenway’?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not Fenway.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Is this 27A?”

“No, it’s 27B. 27A is in the building across the street.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! How embarrassing! I’ll, uh… I’ll just let myself out.”

Some people would’ve said something clever then. Me? I just passed out from the pain, like a real man.